


You Can Go Your Own Way

by soft_october



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, M/M, Pining, Post Lockdown, we are all feral over this and I am adding my contribution to the pile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23950384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_october/pseuds/soft_october
Summary: “You called me."Crowley set the treacherous phone back in it’s cradle and gave it a glare for good measure, as if it could think about what it had just done, attempt to remedy the situation, and ring again with a more amenable Aziraphale on the other line. “Oh of course you can slither on over dear,” this Aziraphale would say. “Pick up some of those chocolates on the way, you know the ones I like.” Crowley did. The shop was closed, but not so closed that a few well placed miracles couldn’t shake a box of truffles free.The phone remained silent.And then Crowley mopes around his flat until theres a knock at the door.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 304
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	You Can Go Your Own Way

“You called  _ me _ .” 

Crowley set the treacherous phone back in it’s cradle and gave it a glare for good measure, as if it could think about what it had just done, attempt to remedy the situation, and ring again with a more amenable Aziraphale on the other line. “Oh of  _ course _ you can slither on over dear,” this Aziraphale would say. “Pick up some of those chocolates on the way, you know the ones I like.” Crowley did. The shop was closed, but not  _ so  _ closed that a few well placed miracles couldn’t shake a box of truffles free. 

The phone remained silent. 

Five minutes after he set the phone down, Crowley went back to reordering his records, tapes, and CDs. This was the fifteenth time since locktown had begun he had organized them. He cycled through several strategies: artist name, album title, genre, color, and their latest configuration, “contains songs which reminded a certain demon of a certain angel, vertically arranged from least to greatest.” (The entirety of Chuck Mangione’s discography supported the cleverly designed tower, with Fleetwood Mac, Queen and the Velvet Underground holding sway above.) Five hours of careful rearranging were destroyed in an instant when Crowley shoved the middle of the entire construction, and it clattered into a right mess all over the floor. 

There. New arrangement done. 

He supposed he could go yell at his plants a bit more, but they  _ really _ had been trying their best lately, and learned helplessness wasn’t pretty to see in plants (or in anyone or anything, really) and he had no desire to encourage it within the confines of his home. If they had been slacking off, or browning that would be one thing, but - they were trying, okay? And they should  _ at least _ be recognized for trying, not just hung up on like they didn’t - 

Whoa. A bit too much self projection there for comfort. 

So, right. Avoid the plants. 

He wandered into the kitchen, where he immediately thought of cookbooks, Aziraphale covered in flour, of burglars allowed to wander home, cake laden and confused, burglars that  _ seen _ Aziraphale, had  _ talked face to face  _ with him, and he briefly considered entering into a life of crime. Oh but that would  _ never _ work, The angel would see through him right away, and he wouldn’t even get a cake for his trouble. 

Not that  _ he _ wanted the cake, mind. Maybe he just wanted to watch as Aziraphale sat and enjoyed some cake, maybe he wanted to be the one to slice into a delicate cake with a fork, hold it out for the angel to - 

Crowley found himself gently stroking his throat, and shook his hand as he burned himself on his own skin. 

Sleep! He needed to sleep. Till July, wasn’t that what he had said? Why July? Why not just sleep away the next five years, the next century, come back and see if Aziraphale would want to go out for lunch afterwards? He’d even get those chocolates the angel liked, take him for a picnic, if that wasn’t too fast. But he couldn’t sit here and be called and told that no, he couldn’t come over, it was  _ against the rules _ . 

He found himself in his bedroom, staring at his bed as if it had personally affronted him, and was just about to fall into it without even setting an alarm when there was a tentative knock at his door. 

Crowley froze. There was only one person (well, man shaped being, at least) who would knock like that. 

He rushed to the door, lest Aziraphale take his hesitation for an answer in the negative, but made sure to open it slowly enough. Aziraphale was standing there, a bag (which surely contained a pile of cakes within) balanced under one arm and was already turning away. 

“Hi,” Crowley said, without a shred of suavity. 

“Oh - hello,” Aziraphale said, like he had just run into Crowley on the street, like he hadn’t miracled himself over here in the middle of a pandemic just to - to what? “I’m sorry - about earlier. The call, I mean. I hung up rather quickly, didn’t I?” 

“You called  _ me _ , angel,” Crowley said, very carefully. 

“I did, I know. Its just that - well, I’d rather - I’d rather gotten very used to seeing you, our dinners and - you know, the theater…” Aziraphale waved a hand around, encapsulating all the dates-that-were-not-to-be-called-dates since the Nopocalypse in one deft gesture of his well manicured hands. 

“But you told me… You said I shouldn’t come over, you  _ said _ it was against the  _ rules _ .” He rolled the r in rules like a displaced and furious russian cabbie shouting about the London traffic. 

“I know,” Aziraphale said, so quietly it made Crowley’s heart ache, and he was furious with himself for having a hand in its diminishing. “I know, but I was hoping, rather foolishly, I might add, that we could -” 

“Get inside, angel,” Crowley said, all sarcasm and bitterness drained from his voice as he stepped aside to allow Aziraphale room to step into his flat. Without another moment’s pause, Azirapahle walked in.

His angel smelled like vanilla and sugar and cinnamon, and, with any luck, Crowley might be able to feed him a slice of cake (or seven) before the night was over. 

What Crowley did not know, as Aziraphale entered Crowley’s flat for the first time in many months, was that Aziraphale had vague plans, plans that extended far past the next few hours, or even the next few days. 

After all, they had already broken the rules. It would be bad form to continue disregarding them. 

He would have to just stay here, with  _ Crowley _ , until the lockdown was all sorted out. 

It was the  _ angelic  _ thing to do. 


End file.
